When I hear my mom talk about dating, I get irritated with
my generation. The 1950s invoke
romantic notions of sock hops and dates to hamburger joints with no pink slime
on the menu. They also make dating
sound easier. There were dances
and drive-ins and pins or jackets to wear to know where you stand. I know I’m oversimplifying and I
definitely wouldn’t go back to a time where people are not offered the
possibility of alternative life-styles.
Our gains outreach or setbacks, but, in today’s world, it can be hard to
know when you are on a date.
I went out a few nights ago with a guy I met in a bar. We met after a wedding and a little
over three years ago. We became
friends on Facebook and haven’t seen each other since. Every so often we comment on the
other’s posts and we’ve exchanged less than a handful of e-mails over the
years. We weren’t really friends
in the beginning, so, when making a plan, “catching up” is a euphemism for
checking each other out.
I suggested a wander along the Highline as he suggested a
walk along the promenade. We’re on
the same wavelength; it must be a date, it seems almost meant to be. I got excited as I told my friends
about this evening of potential, knowing that my standards are way too low when
I get excited about finding a guy who likes to walk…in New York City.
Our walk leads to dinner and he insists on picking up the
check. Now that we’re grown ups,
I’m okay with the guy getting the check, but it does add another element to the
game of Clue we play while dating.
If he’s buying dinner, is there a chance he’s thinking this could lead
to Professor Plum in the bedroom with a bottle of wine? And, more importantly, as I’ll learn,
am I interested in playing Miss Scarlet?
He hip-checks me out of the way as I type the information
for our movie tickets into the kiosk, making sure he’s first to get that check
as well. As I go flying across the
theater lobby, I start to wonder if this clue isn’t so much about me as it is
about his desire to feel like the man.
He approaches paying for the activity like a competitive sport; my
attraction diminishes as my investigation continues.
During the movie, the couple next to me talks and texts from
previews to credits. It’s a full
theater, so I lean into my potential date. He doesn’t move closer or further away. No information to be deduced from that.
At the end of the night, 2 a.m., after the midnight show, we
say goodbye. We stand in Union
Square as I thank him for the Anakin Skywalker action figure he brought me as a
gift. I’d mentioned having a crush
on Darth Vader in one of our text exchanges before the possible date, so it was
both a verification of his listening skills and a reason for him to be 20
minutes late to our original meeting place. It was a cute idea, but, if I had to choose, I’d prefer no
cute but random gift and not standing alone on the Highline watching the sunset
by myself.
He was taking the 4/5/6 trains home and I needed the
2/3. He stopped in front of his station. I leaned in to give him a
hug and he planted a kiss. Trying
to stay open to the quirky-ness of the situation, I kissed him back. After close to six and a half seconds he pulled
away, said, “Let’s do this again, are you free on Wednesday?” and sprinted to
his subway before I could completely answer.
I walked the two Avenue blocks to my train, alone, thinking
about the scale from providing to protecting. In general, I’d rather have a guy walk me to my subway than
fight for the check. His kiss was
the final clue, and probably meant it was a date in his mind. But once I figured that out it didn’t
take me long with the follow up question.
Even though we don’t give out pins or jackets anymore,
picking the right guy is still more important to the quality of the evening
than picking the right label for the activity. Perhaps in the future I need to answer the question, “do I
like him?” before I even bother asking myself, “is this a date?”
